


Fingers

by prizewinningfruitcake



Series: Bitten [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Making Out, Size Difference, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, hand stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 14:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18592939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prizewinningfruitcake/pseuds/prizewinningfruitcake
Summary: “Yourfingers.”Her arm appeared, jutting out from her bunk, two fingers thrusting.“Sister!”“Ask her how first, though.”





	Fingers

She kissed him on the street that night, on his lip where it was swollen - swelling - from connecting with someone’s skull. He hasn’t stopped thinking about it. 

It hurt, and was soft at the same time.

The first time. Not _his_ first time, or hers, but theirs. It’s happened again since then, and again and again, lips on his and his on hers. She’s kissed his chin and his cheek, and once his knuckles, which made his chest knot up in a way he’d never felt before.

He’s kissed her on impulse, after asking if he could. That felt awkward, but with her, it just seemed to him - impolite, for lack of a better word, not to ask. He couldn’t just put his face on hers without asking first.

After a few times, she told him he doesn’t have to ask. 

It’s been a few times, a few weeks. He knows her better now. He’s put his arms around her, kissed her ear, seen her cry. She leaned in to him at the Hanged Man, a little drunk, and told him, “I like you.” 

That caused him to blush furiously, and then to grin like an idiot for the rest of the night.

In hindsight, it isn’t surprising that Marian knew. She brought it up to him one morning as he was shaving.

“You should use your fingers,” she said as cooly as if she were pointing out a spot he’d missed. 

“I-” Carver froze, watching his own reaction in the little mirror propped on the table. “What?”

“Your fingers.”

He sighed, hoping to the Void she didn’t mean it that way.

“I heard you; I’m not deaf. What do you-”

“Your _fingers_.” 

Her arm appeared, jutting out from her bunk, two fingers thrusting.

“Sister!”

“Ask her how first, though.”

She’d trapped him with a razor to his neck, his face burning and about three-quarters unshaved. His only option was to try and frustrate her into giving up.

“Her, who?”

“You know who I mean.” She stretched arms and legs in front of her like a cat. Like an awful, nosy cat. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit, but alright.”

He thought it was over after that, but she appeared next to him just as soon as he’d returned to his task. 

“Don’t make any babies, Carver.”

“Maker’s balls!” He abandoned his razor, dripping and growing genuinely angry.

“That’s the last thing we need.”

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Look, I don’t like it either, but it has to be said.” 

“ _Why_?”

“You know why. I don’t disapprove. To be completely honest, you’ve been far less of a grump lately.” She held up a finger, then poked him in the chest with it. “I just hope you know how to be a gentleman. That’s why I’m telling you.”

He thought at first this must be payback for a comment he made about Anders the day before, but no, she was serious. 

He sighed, looking from her to his own reflection. “Alright, Mother. If I say I’ll do it, will you leave me alone?”

He earned a hard punch in the sternum for that, but she did sound like Mother just then. Only Mother would never be that straightforward. Mother would have used some humiliating phrase like, “in a family way.”

“Deal. It’s good advice. You’ll thank me later.”

He rolled his eyes. “Why do you assume I’ve never done that before?”

She cast a backwards glance at him on her way out of the room. “Oh, now you want to talk about it?”

“No!”

He _has_ done that before. He doesn’t need to ask how. 

….

Merrill bounces on the balls of her feet in the market, trying to reach a cluster of garlic hanging from one of the stalls. When Carver steps in and grabs it for her, she says, “Oh, what a sweetheart. I forget you’re so tall.”

He forgets too, that she’s smaller than him. It feels like they’re the same when they’re facing down bandits in Darktown, when they’re walking side by side. He remembered earlier when they found a missing slat in the fence around the Viscount’s garden that she could fit through but he couldn’t.

Standing at her doorstep looking at the top of her head as she fishes her keys from her pack, he remembers again. 

She’s sweet and she’s small; he has to bend to kiss her, and he does - often. So often and for so long sometimes he can barely take it. She presses herself against him in her bed, against the wall outside his house, and Maker he can barely take it. One of those nights an ache took root in the pit of his stomach and hasn’t gone away. 

It’s not _that_ kind of ache - well, it is, but it’s more than that. He does think of her when he comes, in his bed on the rare mornings he gets a moment alone, but that doesn’t make it go away. It’s somewhere deeper than that.

“Do you want to come in?”

He does. He always does.

And he isn’t shy anymore about taking her face in his hands and finding her mouth with his. That’s one benefit of aching all the time, that he has no room to be nervous. 

He kicks the door shut behind him and she pulls him with her to the table so she can set down her keys and her pack and her shopping bag. 

She keeps a hand on his collar, keeping him close. She doesn’t want to break away from him. Her tongue is in his mouth, solid and hot, and he feels her breath change. Something changes. 

He thinks he feels an ache in her too. 

They need to be closer. He reaches with one arm under her thighs and lifts her onto the table. She gasps, but doesn’t stop kissing him. 

She wraps her legs around him.

He doesn’t know how they got here. They were on the street, discussing the edibility of apple cores, and now he’s between her legs and there’s heat at his back. He breathes into her mouth and pauses, unsteady, on the edge of something.

Mouth on his, her heels dig into his back and she pulls him in, against her.

She moans, urgent, into him, and his hips thrust forward of their own volition. She _moaned_. Because of _him_. 

The table legs scrape the floor as he leans into her, over her. He’s clearing the space behind her, moving her keys from under her head. They tip back, and it’s the tipping back that convinces him they’re really doing this. 

His fingers find her, between her legs, the thin layer of fabric separating him from her, and the small sound she makes convinces him to keep going. 

He has done this before. He doesn’t need to ask how. But for some reason when he feels her soft fine hair under his fingers, her body warm and open under him, he says, “Show me.” 

It just seems right.

She comes up to kiss him quick and light on the lips, grabs the bottom hem of his shirt and pulls it up to where it catches at his arm - his hand inside the waistband of her leggings. 

His legs are shaking, his face is numb. Maker he’s doing this all wrong. You’re supposed to undress first.

“Take that off,” she says in a low controlled voice he doesn’t recognize. He does as she says, reaching behind his head to tug it off and toss it aside. 

He wants to take off hers, but it looks complicated and he doesn’t know where it fastens. She touches his shoulders, his sides, his back, brings his head down and hers up to kiss him slowly, deeply. 

He can’t move. She isn’t holding him with any sort of force, just heels firm against his lower back, a hand on his shoulder, one on his jaw, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to.

“Right here.” She moves his hand to the ties at the side of her shirt, showing him. He pulls it, reaches to loosen the other side. She takes it off, the layer underneath with it, and they’re both bare from the waist up. 

They’ve never been like this before, this undressed. She’s soft and smooth, her bare arms and chest and stomach a contrast to the feeling of her clothed legs around him. She takes his hand and moves it from her waist to her chest, and he doesn’t need any more invitation.

He shifts and closes his mouth around her nipple, tasting her, kissing. She sighs. Their hips move again, together. 

He’s sunk into a haze, lazily kissing, her hand on the back of his head, and it’s so good he barely notices how awkwardly his neck is bent. He barely hears her say, “You want to stay here?”

It hadn’t occurred to him they could go anywhere else. He’s forgotten the existence of any place other than here with his feet on the floor and his body against hers. 

“I…” He can’t finish his sentence; he has to kiss her. He’s been away from her mouth too long. 

She laughs against his lips. He’s vaguely aware of her hands leaving his shoulders and hooking into her leggings, pulling them down. He has to back up to let her take them off, but he doesn’t. Her hands bump against his thighs, and as far as he’s concerned that’s far enough. He hooks an arm around her waist, pulls her in, strokes her right there, almost there.

“Yes,” he says, using what little breath is left in his lungs. “Here.”

She takes his free hand in hers, and parting her legs as much as the fabric bunched around her knees will allow, she shows him how to use his fingers.

Slow, but firm. She takes his hand, flattens his fingers and moves them to where she’s wet, so wet and slick and hot, then back up, down then up. Then inside. 

_Oh._

Her eyes are closed, her forehead against his. She rocks against the palm of his hand, and it’s… new. It’s not new; he’s done this before, but - something about it is. Something is different, feels different. 

“Merrill…”

He wants to say something, to tell her- what? Nothing he can say will sound right, won’t sound silly.

“Hmm?” she hums. Her eyes open a crack, brilliant green under soft dark lashes. He kisses her, and- 

He can’t. He can’t say anything. Just looking at her is too much. He moves his hand like she showed him, another finger. 

“ _Ohh…_ ” Her eyebrows furrow. 

“Alright?”

A nod, a smile. She moves him faster, moves her hips. He matches her speed, holds her in his other arm, close, his mouth on her neck, on her chest. 

She whines, words he doesn’t understand and doesn’t need to. He knows what that means. 

Faster, he drives in, fingers slick and sliding freely. 

“Carv- _fuck_ -” Her voice quivers and breaks. Her arms tighten around him, and _Maker’s breath_ he’s hardly ever heard her swear. 

He can’t stop, couldn’t if he tried. Faster, deeper, he pushes another finger inside and feels her clench around him. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes as she comes, comes apart in his hands. 

She grips him, inside and out, her fingers pricking the back of his neck, and it’s hard to keep moving, but he does, fast and hard, then slower as she slows. 

He’s smiling. Uncontrollably. Like a fool. She sags, and he holds her up, gently pulls out of her. 

She sways, giggles soft and low and kisses his throat. Her hands are on his belt, haphazardly unbuckling.

His breath hitches. He doesn’t breathe at all as her hands find him, his bare stomach, his cock hard and straining against the laces of his trousers - the laces she’s clawing at now, pulling open. 

She holds his hips, gives his ass a squeeze with the other hand. Fingertips brush him and he’s shaking with the effort to not thrust forward into her. 

Then she wraps her hand around him and he nearly sobs.

It’s too much, her hand, her _hands_ , so soft on his cock. He’s dizzy. He’s fucking her hand and she’s smiling devious, pulling his trousers down with her free hand, gripping his ass.

It’s not enough. He wraps his own hand around hers, shows her how. How tight, how fast. He moves freely, held by her legs. His hand looks massive on her shoulder.

“Merrill…”

She looks at him and he needs to tell her this time, to say something. 

“I’m close-“ he chokes. 

That wasn’t supposed to be it, but he can’t think anymore, he can’t-

“Come,” she says, softly but firmly. “Come, come now.”

He does. In her hand and on her stomach, and - a lot. 

“Fuck,” he pants.

He hasn’t gotten a morning alone in a while.

Merrill’s catching her breath. She unhooks her legs from around him.

“Sorry.”

“For what?” he asks, incredulous. His hand is still on her shoulder and he moves it to hold her jaw, to turn her face up.

“Bit demanding,” she laughs, shrugs.

He kisses her. 

“I…liked it,” he says, then, before he pulls away, “You’re so beautiful.”

There, now he’s said something.

She turns her face into the palm of his hand. He feels her smile.

They shed the rest of their clothes and move to her bed, a more practical place to keep making each other come. Which they do, because now they know how. 

And no one need tell Marian she was right.


End file.
